


Sanctum

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fortress Vader, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mustafar, Set in 4 BBY, Suitless Darth Vader, Technology and the Force Intersecting, The Force
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “Based on what I have read of your career and specializations without your field, I believe that you possess capabilities beyond the scope of the work you are currently engaged with.”“I—My mind is not what it once was, Governor—“Tarkin appears unmoved.  “You have been granted two weeks of leave from the Tarkin Initiative’s Eadu base, supervised by myself.  I will transport you and ensure your cooperation in the task you have been assigned to.”Galen remains silent, eyes trained upon Tarkin’s rank insignia, perfectly subservient.Galen Erso is forced to design yet another technological terror for the Empire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the tags may be adjusted as each chapter is posted.
> 
> The Archive Warnings will not change.

The growl of the dawn alarm follows Galen into the laboratory, interrupted by two successive cracks of thunder from the west. In these liminal moments before a shift begins and his mind refocuses, they can still manage to unsettle him, to startle back memories of a lifetime spent in similar laboratories by choice rather than moral duty.

 

“Your new sanctum,” Krennic had announced when he had first arrived, looking down hungrily at the mob of technicians on the level beneath them, at where Galen’s outdated notes had been copied onto dozens of holoprojectors. Still in a stupor from the injection to purify his blood from Lah’mu’s contaminant metals, Galen had merely stared at his own reflection in the transparisteel. He’d been surprised by it, he remembers, by the way Krennic had managed to shear him of Lah’mu until there was no trace left of four too-brief years.

  
  
“The kyber lab has two levels. Up here is the aptly-named 'laser lab', and beneath us, of course, is the crown jewel of the base itself—the fusion reactor. At the start of every shift, you’ll use the code cylinder I have for you to begin the reaction needed to melt the crystal fragments into usable blocks. Unfortunately, cooling times will depend on the amount of shards available for fusion, not our schedules. But in the meantime, you’ll be free to meddle with how to implement the the thing into the station proper.”

 

Galen looks down at the machine now, struck as he ever is by the sight of what has become of the blueprints made by a lonely Academy student hoping to generate clean power for Grange. The reactor is not intrinsically evil, of course—it is merely a tool. Like the mind it was borne from, it was weaponized by Krennic, simply executing the task it has been warped to.

 

 _For you, Stardust_ , he thinks as he does each time he slides the code cylinder into its port, the ensuing roar of the fusion reactor slowly plateauing into an ambient growl.

 

“Galen? Galen!” he remembers Krennic shouting over the sound before ordering the reactor turned off once more. “I know you’re quite exhausted from your journey but I need you to pay attention—“

 

 _Nasolabial folds_ , he had thought, prodding at the shadowy lines upon his face in the transparisteel. _As Humans age, they grow more pronounced. Had he ever noticed them on—_

 

“And what of Lyra?” he’d asked without any pretense, still watching himself overlaying the reactor beneath them.

 

Krennic had sighed, had slipped his arm tightly around Galen, pulling him close until their bodies had appeared to meld at the shoulder. “She’s going to be buried properly, of course,” he’d said softly, tilting Galen’s face towards him until they are eye-to-eye. “On Coruscant. Given the honor she deserves.”

 

Galen hadn’t sobbed, hadn’t begged to join her, hadn’t even flinched at the cocking of a Death Trooper’s blaster rifle when two gunners had looked up at them while sorting kyber shards. Instead, he had simply continued to stare at Krennic, at the glee poorly concealed by an empathetic half-smile.

 

“The datapad containing your new schedule is right here. I’m staying for the next three rotations to ensure you settle in properly, but after that, I expect you to be self-sufficient.”

 

“And here is what you’ll use to activate the reactor,” Krennic had added, making certain that Galen’s eyes were upon his when he pressed the code cylinder to his lips before tucking it carefully into its pocket, letting his hand linger against Galen’s breast. “The key to powering the brilliance you will design up here. And that which will one day join our names for eternity.”

 

“No,” Galen had said softly, stupidly. He remembers waiting for Krennic’s strike, flinching when he had finally withdrawn his hand.

 

Krennic, to his credit, had had the decency to look embarrassed. “I must respect your grief,” he’d agreed, unable to resist a last touch to Galen’s arm. “Because I respect you, Galen. And I will do everything in my power to ensure you achieve the greatness you are capable of here.”

 

Galen had nodded then as he does now, his eyes darting back to the reactor, to where Argonne and the rest of his team are reflected in the transparisteel behind him, watching the influx of technicians as they do every morning, ever silent, ever stiff.

 

“Another shipment of crystal shards is due within the hour, sir,” Argonne says, frowning. “We’ve also received a partial transmission that the communications officers are still trying to decipher. Risk has been assessed as low—it originates from an Imperial vessel.”

 

Galen mutters his thanks before proceeding towards his station, the other men at his heels while Argonne goes to oversee the technicians. The insular ecosystem of Eadu remains undisturbed by visitors such as these, who arrive and depart silently, their identities shrouded by their alloy helmets and durasteel flexsuits. Likewise, Galen’s team members remain ageless in their middle age, never plagued by death or demotion, Krennic’s trust in Galen’s judgement extending to lengths that surprise even him.

 

“Sir,” Argonne half-shouts, hurrying away from a petty officer who had intercepted him. “The transmission is still garbled from the storm, but from what they can understand, a Star Destroyer has come into orbit. The serial number corresponds to the _Executrix_.”

 

Galen swallows around the bile rising in his throat. “Tarkin is here?”

 

“Not yet, sir. We lost contact after they announced their arrival, but we’d best get to the landing pad before his shuttle arrives.”

 

Galen nods, unable to wait for Argonne or his team to match pace for fear of his legs buckling if he stops. While movement redirects some of the adrenaline coursing through his body, the panic of discovery thrums insistently against his better judgement.

 

 _He cannot know_ , Galen reminds himself. Tarkin, born and bred for war, is neither engineer nor architect, and thus would be unable to decipher the copy of _Stardust_ ’s schematics he had insisted be sent to Scarif’s databank. Krennic is surely unaware as well—he would have come here himself to punish Galen before he’d tell Tarkin of his failure to sniff out treason.

 

Despite this and Galen’s confidence in his submissive act, the unexpected nature of Tarkin’s visit weighs heavily in his chest as he sets foot on the landing pad, watching Tarkin’s shuttle descend. He has not set foot on the base in the ten years since Galen has arrived, and while he is uncertain of the motivations behind this visit, Galen knows that the dynamic of his life is about to somehow be fundamentally changed once more.

 

By the time the shuttle has landed and the ramp has begun to descend, Galen’s team has assembled two steps behind him, Argonne coming to stand at his side. Though he remains as impassive as ever, like Galen, his indifference hides the trembling hands clutched behind his back. The very threat of meeting Tarkin is in itself an entity, the foreboding of such warping itself into an anxiety that Galen cannot rationalize himself out.

 

_Too much lies at risk for me to be unafraid._

 

When Tarkin is finally revealed by the lowered ramp, the sight of him is nearly a relief. He looms, flanked by two Death Troopers, untouched by the rain soaking through Galen’s uniform. This height and distance grants him a surrealism, shadows playing upon the sinuous line of muscle that carves the hollow beneath his cheekbones in a way so effectively menacing that Galen is forced to take a step backward.

 

“Dr. Erso,” he begins, his voice a command rather than a shout despite the torrential rain. “Dr. Erso, you will board this shuttle immediately. The rest of you are to return to your stations and continue your work. Argonne, I trust that you are capable enough of temporary supervision of progress without me requesting Director Krennic be called down to oversee it instead?”

 

Argonne’s answer is lost to Galen, who rushes forward before he registers Tarkin’s words enough to consider Krennic being “called down” rather than “summoned”.

 

Only briefly does he contemplate throwing himself off the platform into the roiling blackness on either side of the ramp.

 

_He cannot know. He is a soldier and politician, not a scientist—he cannot know._

 

+

  
“Sit down,” Tarkin says in lieu of a proper greeting once they stand in the corner of the shuttle that serves as a makeshift office, where he is immediately, jarringly faced with Krennic, his blaster resting atop the desk.

 

“Now, Erso,” Tarkin says slowly, as though savoring Galen’s obvious discomfort. “You have proven your worth as an engineer firsthand to me in your work concerning the superlaser’s reactor. A rather _inefficient_ one, but that will be improved upon beginning today.”

 

Despite his practice with Krennic, Galen can still feel the burn of heat in his face, the sweat collecting at the back of his neck, the way his eyes fail to focus upon Tarkin’s for more than several seconds at a time. Instead, they fall to Krennic, who offers him a smile and a conspiratorial wink.

 

_He does not know._

 

Relief floods Galen strongly enough to cause knees to buckle as he sits—a weakness that Tarkin is all too quick to frown upon.

 

“Tarkin, I can take it from here with him. You do not need to concern yourself with this.”

 

There is no frailty to Tarkin, despite his the veins along his temples, his mottled hands, his gaunt figure. Galen’s eyes fall to where his mouth is splayed, slit-like and centered too precisely between his nose and chin—an array of features so striking on a human as to resemble a poor imitation of one, as though he were a modification of a Clawdite assassin’s template.

 

“We are quickly approaching orbit and I do not wish to waste time before the jump to hyperspace. Speak quickly, and then you must leave.”

 

The knowledge of Tarkin’s presence grants Galen an equally potent relief—one he does not care to examine further.

 

Krennic leans forward, a hand atop Galen’s knee. “He brought you aboard safely? No man-handling?”

 

Galen could laugh at the irony of Krennic’s concern for his comfort as the hand snakes higher. “I went willingly,” he retorts, his eyes downcast.

 

Krennic, now fiddling with his blaster holster, does not seem to notice, granting Galen the moment he needs to process his sudden, unwelcome interference into the sudden, unwelcome interference that Tarkin had initiated. _I am still defeated_ , he thinks, _yet I am not so broken as to become his mistress_.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” Krennic coos, his gloved hand coming to rest upon Galen’s cheek. “The transport won’t take more than a day, and you’ll be by my side while you’re away from Eadu—just don't ask me what I had to do to keep you with me.”

 

Tarkin’s head snaps upright, his eyes locked upon Krennic’s.

 

“Erso is to remain upon the _Executrix_ for the duration of our journey. As I have informed you several times now, _Director_ , you do not have clearance to remain aboard, and will return to your shuttle once we are in orbit.”

 

“If he is being transported off-world, I must oversee it. He is under my command!”

 

“And you are under mine. Do recall whose foundation provides funding for _Stardust_ to remain in production.”

 

“As if you’d let me forget it, you—“

 

“Orson,” Galen interjects, his fear corroding his better judgement.

 

Krennic’s hand clenches around Galen’s shoulder. “See? He doesn’t understand the protocol—you can’t toss him to Lord Vader for two weeks to bat around! He’ll be dead in an hour without my guidance!”

 

Galen’s chest grow cold, his throat constricting before he can consider the logic of it. _Lord Vader?_ The name startles him as sharply as he imagines it must for everyone else with a modicum of common sense.

 

Tarkin’s comm chimes. “We’ve begun docking, sir.”

  
  
“I have entertained your fancies long enough,” Tarkin says with disgust, looking pointedly at the blaster atop his desk. “Your shuttle remains docked in Bay 132 B, level seven. Remove yourself from my ship immediately or I will have my guards do so.”

 

“I was briefing him!” Krennic snarls, grabbing his blaster while Tarkin looks on, unflinching. Too stunned by the interaction, it is only after Krennic has stormed out that Galen realizes that beneath his narcissism, he is right.  _I will die by Vader's hand, sooner rather than later._

 

Barely a moment passes between the last of Krennic’s footfalls and the first of Tarkin’s words. “Let us reconvene in a proper conference room. Then, you may situate yourself for the remainder of our journey and make yourself presentable for an audience with Lord Vader.”

 

 _Lord Vader_. Galen cannot quiet the heated panic rising within him, no doubt soaking the back of his tunic further. _What does he want with me, if the flaw remains undiscovered?_ The question burns, yet Galen remains silent as he walks from the shuttle and into the belly of the Executrix, two steps carefully behind Tarkin.

 

_Asphyxiation cannot be so terrible as this past decade, if nothing else._

 

The maze of the _Executrix_ gives way easily for Tarkin, and Galen decides that deciphering the motivations of the players involved is a far better activity than imagining Vader’s footfalls behind his own. It must be related to crystallography, yet what use does a creature who relies upon mysticism have for his knowledge? “ _Midi-chlorians are parasitic bacteria_ ,” he imagines himself telling Vader as he once had his students on Coruscant, “ _and they are present in all living things. A higher count means a less active immune system, which does not recognize them as a threat to the host’s body—at least, that’s what the most prominent researchers currently believe. You’re welcome to a civil debate at the end of class regarding it_.”

 

Tarkin’s eyes fall upon Galen’s once more as they are seated in an empty conference room, satisfaction curling his lips.

 

“Now,” Tarkin begins, his hand curling slightly against his jaw, “I have had little enough reason to concern myself with _Stardust_.” The rolling drag of the name is even uglier upon his tongue than Krennic’s, and Galen struggles to remain still. _This is to protect her. Whatever he asks, I must do_.

 

“Based on what I have read of your career and specializations without your field, I believe that you possess capabilities beyond the scope of the work you are currently engaged with.”

 

“I—My mind is not what it once was, Governor—“

 

Tarkin appears unmoved. “You have been granted two weeks of leave from the Tarkin Initiative’s Eadu base, supervised by myself. I will transport you and ensure your cooperation in the task you have been assigned to.”

 

Galen remains silent, eyes trained upon Tarkin’s rank insignia, perfectly subservient.

 

“You will be engineering a suit for Lord Vader with capabilities it was not originally designed to accommodate. Lord Vader is a skilled mechanic, yet he does not possess knowledge of the kyber crystal beyond its more—metaphysical, shall we say—properties. Primarily, your duty will consist of adapting the laser you have designed to a scale suitable for his personal use.”

 

Tarkin pauses, watching Galen bow his head with the sheer magnitude of this impossible task.

 

“ _You would give an insatiable killer a mythical power realized by technology_ ,” Galen wants to spit back, too angry to consider Tarkin’s apparent pleasure in the thought. “ _Is his lightsaber not enough? Have the crystals I have devoted my life to studying not yet promised enough destruction to the galaxy you claim to protect?"_

 

“Do you accept the task I present to you, Erso?” he asks, leaning towards Galen in a mimicry of concern. _Krennic’s objectification would be a thousand times more welcome than this._

 

“Yes, Governor. My services are yours.”

 

Tarkin’s smile is a hard, unwavering line. “Lord Vader will be most pleased to welcome you.”

 

  
+

 

It is only once Galen coughs his first breath upon Mustafar that he, half-delirious with fear and lack of sleep, thinks of those liminal morning hours with the reactor, when he can almost believe in the magic of the Force.

 

“Follow me, Erso.”

 

Galen obeys, walking into the maw rising before him, its haze interrupted only by a sharp, dark figure within.

 

_For you, Stardust._

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Skepticism_

 

 _A good Force signature for a man of his profession,_ Vader decides immediately, even before the smoke parts enough to reveal Erso. His corporeal presence is unimportant, of course, yet Vader still studies him as he walks towards him, two steps carefully behind Tarkin. A broad man, the top of his head aligned with Tarkin’s brow. Slim enough, yet without a soldier’s build. There is grief in his eyes, resignation to his posture—an acceptance of the whims of authority that Vader has never possessed.

 

_Fear_

 

 _A familiar undertone—ideal, in truth_. Vader is hardly eager to dissuade it. Nothing save for Erso’s line of vision in this first probe of his foremind, even before his eyes widen in surprise at the rooting tendrils Vader projects into it. Despite his wavering belief in Vader’s abilities, dread and anxiety catch against Vader’s retreating presence.

 

_Urgency_

 

 _Tarkin’s signature dominating Erso’s own, undoubtedly._ A far cleverer man, despite whatever technical knowledge he possesses. Truly, Vader knows Tarkin to be a man beyond men—the only being Vader respects based on action rather than fear.

 

“Lord Vader,” Tarkin says before Vader can speak, Erso halting at parade rest beside him. Vader does not bother to correct his manners, even if such complacency is dangerous for a Sith. Had Tarkin the Force, he would have been dead long ago by Vader’s hand, yet Tarkin has proven himself more useful alive rather than dead, kept close rather than discarded.

 

“You have arrived at an inopportune moment, ” Vader replies, a brittleness surrounding Erso in a belated attempt at self-preservation. “The power generator has not yet been deactivated, and thus Director Krennic’s messages have been transmitted. He claims his arrival to be imminent.”

 

Erso’s mouth tightens, an anger seeping from his core, old and tender. Vader stores it away to be meditated upon later—should he submerge himself in the strength of it, he knows that the next task will be impossible.

 

“Give your orders to Erso, then, and we will see to both.”

 

“Vaneé, bring Doctor Erso to the laboratory and explain the conditions he will be working under. Have him examine the two kyber crystal shipments and discard any null ones that the mine workers may have missed.”

 

“Vaneé’s voice echos through the smoke from beside the rejuvenation chamber door. “Yes, Lord Vader.”

 

Erso hesitates, looking back to Tarkin’s unrelenting figure before walking into the exhaust surrounding them.

 

“Governor Tarkin will bring the suit for prototyping momentarily,” he adds, suddenly, terribly aware of his own rasping breath. “Remain with Erso until he arrives and tells you to do otherwise.”

 

“Of course, Lord Vader.”

 

Tarkin’s eyes remain upon Vader’s, locating them easily behind the lens of his helmet. They wait in silence until the both the door leading to the rejuvenation chamber and then that of the adjacent laboratory have closed.

 

Again, Tarkin is the first to speak. “You mock me with Krennic’s messages. He is not foolish enough to attempt to contact you directly, regardless of his other antics.”

 

“I sought Erso’s reaction,” Vader replies truthfully, the temptation to return to the power of Erso’s anger simmering around him like the steam from the lava flows beneath their feet. Instead, he turns his back to Tarkin, who immediately matches his stride towards the rejuvenation chamber.

 

“You do not trust my assessment of him?” he asks, a reprimand underlying the question that would be any other man’s last.

 

“I trust the Force above all, Governor.”

 

Tarkin does not bother to answer, and Vader hardly need project to receive his signature: _disdain, a memory of Kenobi’s pointed superiority_.

 

The sensation of privacy within the rejuvenation chamber is absolute, Erso’s presence blocked, Vaneé’s inconsequential, Tarkin’s desired. Once Vader has assured himself of this twice over, he activates the two medical droids, who begin by removing his soft garments.

 

“Vaneé finished filling the basin the moment you arrived. I ask that you take note of each step in this process in order to attend to me properly once it cannot be avoided."

 

Anticipation, low and primal. “Of course.”

 

The heated bacta permeates the air alongside Tarkin’s presence, as though it possesses a signature of its own. It smells of agar, of peasant’s broth, of nothing that could be thought sterile. And yet, it protects Vader in ways his suit and armor and the Force cannot, seeping into his skin as a barrier, enveloping him like a womb. Tarkin’s eyes lock upon his as he is lifted and lowered into the basin, though Vader’s do not remain open once he is submerged, his every sense null except for the stinging of his skin and the vibrancy of the Force, pulling him deep within himself. Tarkin disappears, replaced by a blue-green world mottled in his shape—Eriadu incarnate.

 

“ _No other man in the galaxy resonates with his homeworld in such clarity_ ,” Vader has wished to tell him before, as little as he would care to hear it—Tarkin is not a man who values that which he cannot see or subdue. “ _Your interest in me remains as such because I am that which you are unable to conquer_.”

 

Slowly, carefully, Vader descends into the center of Erso’s mind. There has been a history of disloyalty with this one, he knows, resulting in a razed planet and several years of Tarkin’s work halted. If there is any lingering on, Vader intends to find it before Erso can attempt to hide it away—or construct it into his suit.

 

“ _Memories make a man_ ,” he recalls Kenobi telling him a lifetime ago, and though he is loathe to admit it, the tactic has served him well—perhaps, most satisfyingly, while hunting Jedi who fell to sentimentality as easily as they did to hypocrisy. Erso’s line of vision is his perspective once more when he cards roughly across the surface—an indicator of a man quick to observe and slow to act.

 

_“Romm, look! He’s sorted them by color for you!”_   
_A man nearly identical to Erso himself looks down at the tiny, beaming woman and the wooden animals in neat lines beside his feet._ _“You’re too much a teacher. Let him throw them at the hearth like any other child his age.”_   
_“No!” Erso’s mother (‘Carthe', the Force reveals) protests, her plait uncoiling as she lifts her son to her breast. “I didn’t help him—he did it himself!”_

 

Vader is impressed by the detail in Erso’s early mind, a fire crackling sparks within his own consciousness as he observes the scene. Even Tarkin’s first memory is not so defined, worn at the edges like the animal pelts his infant form laid upon, disappearing over the years into only the slide of the fur against his chubby palms. Yes, it is sensations that have created Tarkin’s subconscious—pain and pride, over and over until Vader can hardly believe the man is anything but Sith.

 

Darting through the expanse of Erso’s mind, Vader keeps his presence light, dexterous as fingers weaving a pattern in cloth, switching his motions when he encounters memories with sharp signatures that remain attached. He cannot be as thorough as he wishes, as he doubts such a mediatative state will come to him again once the power generator is deactivated and everything but a half-basin of warmed bacta from the shuttle will be denied him. No, better to have a broad understanding of the man rather than studying every boyhood memory until he can recite the names of Erso’s favorite nerf breeds. Kenobi was not omnipotent, and Vader finds a thrill in disregarding his teachings, pulling himself forward two decades in Erso’s mind, followed immediately by another.

 

_A wide-eyed Orson Krennic, barely more than a boy, a kyber crystal tucked into his palm in a darkened school hallway. He presses it to his lips, ignorant to Erso’s discomfort as he watches from behind a door._

 

_Damp skin and a woman, messy-haired and possessing an ordinary sort of prettiness, her chin resting atop Erso’s chest. “You’re like starlight,” she murmurs, rolling them over._

 

_“Candles? Why candles, of all things? Granted, I don’t know what pregnancy—“_   
_“That’s right, Orson—you know nothing about pregnancy,” the woman snaps, teasing the wick into place. “Or me, for that matter.”_   
_Erso’s head remains bent over a nature holo, his focus absolute, the screen’s image lost to time._

 

Focusing now, Vader bears down into the atmosphere of Erso’s technical thoughts, finding them curled tightly, all rubbing against his conscious mind. There are two types of individual Vader encounters, and it is always this threshold that differentiates them. The most common sort are those who hold vulnerable memories close, nurturing them with attention, allowing them to bubble close to the surface of their thoughts at all times. The second cling to their plans, worshiping their ideas as idols, protecting them against the dangers of being relegated behind anything of lesser importance.

 

It is with some skepticism of his own that Vader discovers Erso to be the latter.

 

The quiescence Vader senses when he first brushes against the barrier is false, yet the limited time allotted for the mapping of Erso’s mind emboldens him, as does his confidence in Erso’s lack of belief in the powers the Force grants him. The phrase _Stardust_ flickers temptingly out of reach, the tendrils of his abilities brushing it for only a fraction of a second before a cacophony erupts.

 

“ _Master Galen, the water on this planet is contaminated. I do not possess the modifications needed to filter it for you_.”

 

“ _I like the beard, Starlight. It makes kissing you an adventure_.”

 

“ _Papa, Longee won’t let Stormie ride her_!”

 

Vader pushes against the onslaught of drivel, instinct overtaking his shock. A man of science, yet one cautious enough to install defenses against the supernatural.

 

" _You're confusing peace with terror_."  
" _Well, we have to start somewhere_."

 

Vader pulls backwards with a roar, the crack of transparisteel echoing beyond the darkness he is now enveloped in.

 

_An auburn-haired boy holds a trident spear, firelight illuminating a pinched, emaciated face.  “Fatten them on expectation, Wilhuff, and slaughter them on the negligence it reaps.”_

 

Tarkin has returned, his presence dragging Vader back to the half-shattered bacta tank, to the knowledge of missing limbs and the silence of the droids whirring around him. He watches the droids re-assemble Vader, who is painfully aware of the truth in the word.

 

 _Only the Force keeps me from becoming a machine rather than a man_.

 

“You will be satisfied, no doubt, to learn that Krennic did indeed attempt to contact me several minutes ago.”

 

Vader allows the aural implants to settle, watching Tarkin’s lips move rather than listening. “Erso is a brilliant man, but ultimately ruled by sentiment.”

 

“And Krennic, it seems,” Tarkin retorts, hands clasping behind his back. “He has been responsible for connecting Erso to every significant opportunity thus far in his career.”

 

“Save for this.”

 

Tarkin’s mouth tenses in what only Vader could know is a smile. “Were any other man capable of these modifications, my friend, I would not have given myself the headache Krennic and Erso never fail to deliver.”

 

“Erso is not known for his haste.”

 

“And Krennic is not so halfwitted as to attempt to land on Mustafar. Despite his antics, the man’s devotion to his own self-preservation has never been a doubt of mine. Not even Erso is more precious than his own neck.”

 

Vader’s lenses are properly aligned now, allowing him to rise to his feet without vertigo. “How did Krennic learn specifics of this assignment beyond Erso’s leave of absence?” he asks, striding across the chamber to Tarkin.

 

“One of my Initiative transmission officers. He has been eliminated for his error in trusting Krennic to act wisely as much as for his breach in protocol.”

 

“Any other man might have simply demoted him.”

 

Tarkin’s gaze is almost jarring in its honesty, conviction seeping from his every pore. “My uncle once told me that it is only the victory ceremonies that are to be feared. Battle is constant, hungry, purposeful—an honorable way to die. Men like that one, who treat life as a celebration rather than a fight, reap only what they sow.”

 

Vader thinks of Anakin Skywalker and cannot agree more. “Jova. The uncle with the beard and hunched back.”

 

Tarkin’s chuckle reverberates through the Force tenfold, though his expression is unchanged. “Yes, Jova. He was correct, of course. Most deny themselves the raw pleasures in fighting tooth and claw, and it matters little to me if others besides you and I know that rapture.”

 

 _Rapture_. The word lingers in the heated layer of the Force, the one that settles around Vader’s belly in a mimicry of arousal. “Thrawn saw war as an art, as a culture—and he died for it. War is chaos to bring order. Philosophical tactics do not matter when victory is desired.”

 

Vader is silent for a moment, the ache of his first movements lingering, the aural implant overcorrecting until Tarkin’s heartbeat is audible a meter away.

 

“Erso holds no appeal for you?”

 

Tarkin’s smugness envelops the Force, a hand reaching to brush Vader’s armored shoulder. “Krennic’s tastes are not my own. Now I know why he chose the Ronan boy as his assistant. Soft-bodied and dull-eyed—satisfying, perhaps, for one playing at dominance as he does.”

 

Vader shudders, leaning towards Tarkin, attempting to ignore the suit’s choked exhales. The Force ripples now, droplets of Vader’s need falling into the waves Tarkin’s presence never fails to form.

 

“The galaxy is fortunate that neither of us are prone to such games.”

 

Tarkin is still, his hand cupping the leather padding upon Vader’s bicep. He looks beyond him to the ruined bacta tank, to the fires of Mustafar that forged the creature who, having been sacrificed to them, now carries their mercilessness within him.

 

“The power generator must be deactivated if Erso has begun to attach the crystals to the prototype. Vaneé and the keeper droids have begun hanging the Zabrak spinetrees. Your men have unloaded the Orrineswa ferns from the shuttle, I trust?”

 

“Yes. They are in the receiving hall, ready for immediate use once uncovered. They will maintain their bioluminescent capabilities so long as they are given adequate water.”

 

Vader finally breaks their contact, moving to activate security feed images of Erso working on the data pad mounted to the wall, the Force constricted once more to auras and tendrils of thought within the confines of his suit. “You will bring several here when you return.”

 

“Erso estimated that he will not be handling the crystals beyond sorting them for another ten hours and he will need a power source in the meantime to design the framework of the suit. He asked that you meet him for a fitting tomorrow. I will assist with your undress later, once I have shown him to his quarters.”

 

Vader does not reply, and both men fall silent for several minutes, watching Erso’s silhouetted back, how he assembles his materials despite his body erupting in a fit of tremors, never turning to look behind himself.

 

“Soon, then,” Tarkin says before leaving, a brush of fingertips grazing Vader’s mask even as his hands remain clasped behind his back.

 

_Sedition_

 

_A man who is the growing disquiet of the galaxy itself._

 


End file.
